


Of Dreams & Betrayals

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-02-24
Updated: 1999-02-24
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Some things just can't be forgiven. This story is a sequel to Of Fairy Tales & Ways Out.





	Of Dreams & Betrayals

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Of Dreams & Betrayals

## Of Dreams & Betrayals

by Catalina Dudka

* * *

The following is a sister story to "Of Fairy Tales & Ways Out", however they each stand on their own (I hope). 

This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. No infringement of any copyrights held by Due South c/o Alliance is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story. 

Rated PG 

Of Dreams & Betrayal  
(by Catalina Dudka - Copyright 1996) 

I am cold. 

So what else is new. 

I can't sleep. 

But that is not news either. 

The grey twilight of lights-out presses against my wide open eyes and sleep stays out of reach. In a way it's a blessing, for when sleep comes, dreams follow, and dreaming is _not_ an option. 

Turning on my side in the narrow bunk, I stare at the cinder-block wall whose original colour is long forgotten beneath layers upon layers of graffiti, the sole testament of all those who had slept here before me. With icy fingers I rub lightly at my side. The bruise does not hurt as much and is now at the yellow-green stage. It's a good thing Bobbi-Jo likes my face otherwise I'd be sporting the latest in broken noses and fat lips. 

The touch is comforting ... too comforting ... it reminds me of another's gentle caress ... 

NO! ... no, I don't want to remember. Remembering is even worse than dreaming. 

With fists clenched I roll up into a tight ball beneath the threadbare blanket and empty my mind of anything but the here and now. The sounds around seep in, wet snores from Bobbi-Jo in the bunk above me, sleepy moans from someone a few cells away, sharp squeaks from a guard's rubber-soled boots, the insistent buzz of fluorescent lights. Slowly I unclench. In someways this is not much different than before, in others it is worse. 

Before ... when all I knew was to survive, and waking up each morning in one piece was all that mattered. Sometimes I would go to the library, mostly to keep warm but also to read. I'd read anything and everything, mostly so the Librarians would leave me alone (they were nice, is a bit nosey) but also because I loved to read. I liked Fairy tales the best because, deep, deep down in my heart of hearts, I believed that one day my prince would come. How naive can you get?? But see, as long as that secret wish existed, there was hope. A hope more powerful than fear, than hate, than despair, and it made each dawn a victory. But that was before ... before my dream came true. 

The bitterness tugs my lips into a semblance of a smile, and the irony of it cuts into me again. It is kind of funny when you think about it. Really it is! Because one day I did meet my prince, an RCMP Officer actually, and he turned out to have feet of clay. 

He rescued me from an icy grave (melodramatic, I know, but true). Together me survived a blizzard, a trek through snow-covered wastes, oh yeah, and we fell in love. He held me in his arms and I begged him to let me go ... but he wouldn't. He promised to love me forever, then he turned me in. 

That part wasn't so bad, because I had faith. He promised he'd be there for me, and I believed it with all my heart. I still remember the last time I saw him (though at the time I didn't know it _would_ be the last time). He looked so handsome in dress reds, that day in court, five years ago. That's what really hurts, not that he turned me in, but that he lied. 

I never heard from him again. However, it gets worse, because ... because even after all this time ... I still love him. Every time I fall asleep he comes to me in dreams, with his intense eyes the colour of heaven, with a smile so sincere, and an embrace warm enough to melt the most ancient of glaciers ... 

NO! 

I wake up from my usual nightmare, shivering. I know the prison is climate controlled, but I never seem to feel warm enough. The Psychiatrist tries to convince me the cold I feel is not real, but I know better. There is only one who can bring warmth to me again. Someday I'll find him ... and never let him go again. 

The End 

Cat (cdudka@direct.ca) 


End file.
